Routines
by Bossy Mossy
Summary: And yet, here he was, doing everything he had never imagined he would be doing. Vaughn/Chelsea, slight Denny/Lanna, IoH/SI, fluff. Oneshot.


Vaughn had never thought that at thirty-three years old that he would be living on a ranch on a desolate, sparsely populated island, the closest city a day and a half's ferry ride away. He never would have thought that he would have found the love of his life in a feisty, brown-haired farmer, more stubborn than any animal he'd ever come across and sweeter than any porridge he'd ever tried. Most of all, Vaughn didn't think he would have ever envisioned himself the father to a herd of children.

And yet, here he was, doing everything he had never imagined he would be doing.

It was an adventure almost every day, something that Vaughn wasn't familiar with prior to meeting his wife. He liked routine, he liked the same daily activities that working brought, but as soon as he had met Chelsea, he realized that nothing was going as monotonous as he previously had been.

Sometimes, in his weakest moments, he wondered what it would have been like staying a bachelor. One of those moments was slowly approaching as he felt his blankets that ebbed at the edge of the bed begin to move, and then tugged on, a weight settling on the foot of the bed.

She was certainly her mother's daughter, Vaughn sleepily mused, keeping his eyes cracked just enough to blurrily watch his little girl, but not enough to cue her in that he was awake. The sun had just risen, and Chelsea was already outside, feeding her animals and watering her plants. She would usually return back into the house just as the oldest children were stirring, but it seemed recently that one of their youngest had begun to develop her mother's sleeping habits, waking up early and going to sleep even earlier.

"Dada." Vaughn had to slyly let out a breath, making it seem as if he was merely stirring in his sleep, tugging his blanket up above his mouth to hide the smile that was edging onto his face. "Dada."

The little girl had crawled up near his face, her thumb stuck between her teeth and white-blonde hair laying in a messy disarray around her face. It was a color that was a medium between his own and her mother's, a pale blonde, nearly white. He was sure she would outgrow the coloring. Most of her siblings had.

The man had to choke back an explicative as the little girl stuck her finger out and prodded his eyelid. "Feed?"

"Not very talkative, are ya?" He murmured, sighing as he sat up. The little girl gave him a toothy smile. She was the only one of their brood to have developed such a thumb-sucking habit, and it was evident as she pulled her finger from her mouth and displayed the gap between her two front teeth. He hoped she grew out of it before her adult teeth broke through, as the island they lived on had no orthodontist like the city had, and braces were expensive. The Vaults family weren't rich, but they managed happily on the produce they shipped and the commission that Vaughn received from the animals he sold. Money was tight, but they were happy.

"Feed."

"Yes ma'm," he murmured, swinging his legs off of the side of the bed and letting out a yawn. Vaughn stood and ran a hand through his hair, before whisking the three-year-old girl up into his arms. "What do ya want for breakfast, eh?"

"Oatmeet."

"It's oat_meal_, Lavender." The little girl fixed the purple gaze she was named for on him, as if chastising him for correcting her. The man couldn't help but roll his eyes as he sat his daughter in her high-chair, beginning to get pans and ingredients ready. It didn't take long for the man to get a pot of water on the stove, heating it, and before he knew it it was just waiting for the water to get warm enough.

"Where's your brother and sister?" He asked, taking a few steps away from the kitchen and walking into their bedroom, picking out a pair of dark pants from the laundry basket that had yet to be sorted and emptied. He pulled them on over his boxers, not bothering with a shirt as he trudged back to the small kitchen.

"Nappy."

"Sometimes I wish you took after your mother," Vaughn sighed, running a hand through his hair again. It was a habit he had all but dropped; he felt odd when he didn't wear his hat, but it was silly to wear it around the house, something Chelsea had pointed out to him early on in their marriage.

"Dad! Delia's taking another one of my shirts again!"

"You never wear it, Owen!"

His little girl came skyrocketing around the corner, a familiar looking hat on her head and a plaid shirt being pulled onto her shoulders. His oldest was nine years old and took very much after her mother, in both aesthetics as well as demeanor. She had her mother's tanned skin and dark hair, but she retained his own oddly colored eyes and pale freckles.

"You've got another plaid shirt in the laundry," Vaughn said, "Delia, stop takin' your brother's clothes. You've got you're own, don't ya?"

"I don't have plaid shirts," she said, forgoing buttoning the top and walking over to her father, kissing him on the cheek. "I'm gonna go fish with Dan, catch ya later."

"Don't get anything on that hat, got it?" He called, but it was too late. His eldest was already outside, her fishing pole in hand.

His daughter was always out the door before he could even tell her goodbye. She spent more time over at Denny's and Lanna's than she did at her own home, he mused, beginning to pour the oats into the now-boiling water and turning the heat off, stirring it with a spoon. His son stalked into the kitchen, his hair messy and a pout on his face as he sat down at the table.

He nearly dropped the utensil as he felt a weight sit down onto his foot, and with a laugh he noticed who it was. Apparently Delia had let his youngest two out of their crib, and they had managed to wobble their way into the kitchen, into the midst of the hustle and bustle there. One of them dropping a diapered bottom onto his bare foot and the other waddling to his seven-year-old brother, whining to be fed.

His son never had to be asked. He stood from his seat and picked his brother up, heading over to the fridge and picking out a pre-made bottle. As it was, his twin sister was still firmly planted on her father's foot, staring up at him with her wide blue eyes.

Vaughn began filling a small bowl with the oatmeal and put it onto Lavender's high chair, before doing the same for Owen's bowl and putting it onto the table. During the chaos of Lavender slamming her plastic spoon onto the high chair and one of his youngest beginning to wail, the man barely noticed as his wife trudged into the house and took off her boots.

"Oh, what's wrong, baby girl?' She soothed, scooping the girl up off of her husband's foot and putting her onto her hip, before snatching the small spoon that Lavender had previously had her grip on before it fell onto the floor.

"Good mornin', Chels," he said, adverting his gaze as the mother of his children fixed him with a blinding smile. She still managed to make him self-conscious, he knew, the familiar burn of a blush beginning on his ears. He reached for his hat, but found nothing, something that Chelsea laughed at.

"Good morning, Vaughn," she said, a smile on her face as she stepped forward to give him a kiss on the cheek, her slightly rounded stomach pressing into his own. His daughter reached over and snagged a hold of his hair just as another child kicked him in the stomach, telling him good morning as well.

It was mornings like that where Vaughn realized that he wasn't so fond of routines after all.


End file.
